Krasota
by Q u e e n V a m p
Summary: Krasota is beauty. She is beauty, she is lovliness and comeliness. But she is also trouble. And asphyxiation. /fem!America/Russia/ 1920s
1. the Doctor Jekyll and the Mr Hyde

**Chapter One: the Doctor Jekyll and the Mr. Hyde**

* * *

_Krasota_

In English it means beauty;  
beauty the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense  
pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations

_She is beauty, she is loveliness and comeliness. But she is also trouble. And asphyxiation. _

* * *

Amelia F. Jones was in trouble.

More so, Amelia "Free Eagle" Jones was the exact incarcerated cage of trouble.

And all who were near her seemed to simply fall in line.

No, the war was over, but still the young nation was having trouble . . . coping with her new lifestyle of good-cop, bad-cop (leisurely, she was pro and con Prohibition –at the same time). The wanton insanity of her double dealing split personality reminded him a little of his own mental state of mind. She was crazy, as was he. And insanity was always driven by that little indiscreet _push _into the bottomless downfall of the blackened pit of hell.

Such a push was the regiment of her roommate, an instigator by the name of Lovino Vargas, the personification of South Italy, who toppled her 'coping' methods and seduced her with darkness, with the beauty of men, with the cool chill of an amber colored glass bottle that touched her heated skin, the fiery adrenaline rush and crash of drugs, and the pulling of a trigger.

_Da, _the nineteen-twenties had turned into an inside out Doctor Jekyll/Mr. Hyde situation of night and day.

By night, she dressed in the shortest skirts flapper fashion had to offer, flaunting her short-since-the-Revolution hair and drinking the night away with her trusted South Italian and some of Al Capone's chosen best. She stumbled home drunk, drove her sleek Italian bred cars and used language and slang that would had made Arthur, personification of England and a once father-figurine, faint and acted in such a way that would make Francis crawl off his alter and kneel at her feet, begging in utter want for the vigorous girl-child that had so easily fallen, and adapted, into the secrets of womanhood.

Nevertheless by day, she was the perfect lady, all P's and Q's and long lace encrusted skirts that would have put his Imperial princesses to shame. England's teachings were pulled to the surface at political lunches –the soup spoon, the dainty lobster fork, asking for a glass of lemonade and resisting temptation to spike it with gin– but her newly instated feminine independence came like a tidal wave of a tongue lashing to unsuspecting male politicians. Her anger towards these men was irrelevant. One moment she was perfectly fine, a 'petty little woman' and next she was the one the men whispered about in the smoke room, the 'she-devil'.

You could _see _these changes. How her face turned from sweet like a summer breeze to anger like she'd been struck. She pulled to snuggling on her girdle, pulled to tightly at her curls, stared to intently with her piercing eyes.

He knew then the new-Amelia (her Mr. Hyde) was eating the other half (her Doctor Jekyll). Albeit, English literature didn't normally appeal to him in the slightest, the sense of mold and just old, oldness of the words seemed to drown like a miserable mantra in his mind. He did enjoy the story though.

She was a monster of the woman species, unwanted by the boorish posh men of yesteryear, but worshiped upon by the new flesh that surrounded her.

She had turned a page, written a new chapter, turned a new leaf.

She was the seductive demon Lilith to the sweet cursed Eve.

She had become a witty, fast-talking, two-faced, crazy woman.

To put it simply by Ivan's standards.

* * *

"Hey Pachuno!" Everyone in the club shouted, raising their arms in the air, and then falling into their dancing routine again. He wondered how they could all danced in such a fashion, so quickly, gravity defining, the men lifted the women and twirled them around their bodies as their flailing limbs shook and the music erupted from the instruments and the slick haired, olive-skinned man on stage sung with his deep velvety voice that shook Ivan's bones. He would have made a good lover to him, had his eyes already not been on a certain woman in the room.

In the room that was an arcane haze of smoke and obscene clatter and clamor, he spotted her for the trademark gold she wore. Surrounded by suits or black and clouds of wispy grey that whisked around her curves and mysterious movements, she was a magnificent hue of pale Mother of Pearl white-gold. The gleaming silver threaded inlays on her dress had made a happy merger with the somewhat dull, pale gold and the translucent beads that dangled from the fabric –like tiny tassels the twists and made happy music when they clinked together. The pearls circling her throat were shaped and sized like peas on a string, twirling with her fingers and shining their own luminescent glow of unearthly beauty.

It was like she wore the sun on her body and the moon on her neck.

She was like a goddess of such foreign entities, jestingly bring together something as different as the moon and the sun. How dare she think to do so? How they clash, how they hate, how they seem to compromise on the likes of her.

He had to have her.

This, at the moment, was all Ivan felt he had ever known. Through the decades of fear and lies, centuries on loneliness, the millennia of cold cruel worlds; he saw something –someone– he could love and warm what had for so long been frozen, at long last. Someone that brought the fire into him again, that tempted his demons to parry and leave him bare to her brandished claws and whirlwind passion.

He wanted to posses her.

He wanted to consume her completely. From the sovereign arrogance of her face to the ethereal sunlight embedded into her warm, inviting skin. The length of her lovely legs that broke wild mustangs with the strength of her thighs and then men's jaws as she passed and they hit the floor in their unison. The smooth curves that Gaia had blessed Amelia's human arsenal. The stubborn curl of her hair. The teasing red velvet of her mouth as it slowly curled over a half-sane million dollar smile.

She was perfect, in body, and in personality held the challenge Ivan so desperately wanted.

_How she teased_–

She laughs with her new friends and shares a drink, laughing like she knows people are looking, her head tossed back and letting out the high, but not shrill, throaty, but not at all masculine, laugh of hers. Not a chuckle, not a giggle, just a laugh. Always a laugh. Not one of those _osly _around her would think anything of her laugh. No, they thought of nothing but her head thrown back, but not as it was know. As if they could get her to submit to them.

–_How she taunted_–

She makes a hoax upon them all and dances with the like of them, two moments each, none last too long –as he's seen this before. He watches as she moves away in a twirl of motion, like a naturalist studying their subject, he sees she is a huntress on the prowl again. Her uncloak of gold making her an impossible miss but, at her best, an invisible catch. Her body's hungry, he can see it in her eyes as she analyzes each welcoming gesture and stance. She unassumingly can read the mood, the atmosphere and the character of everyone around her. She moves on.

–_How she dances_–

A certain Feliciano Vargas is her reluctant catch of the night. A homosexual, he knows, and a good friend of hers, due to him being the brother of her favorite business partner, agrees to dance with her. The young North Italian personification has the same hungry look in his eyes, but Ivan knew none could slat his hunger –no matter how beautiful Amelia is, no matter how many times he could try, it would just hurt him, and her, even Feliciano knew that– but the one he burns for, the one he yearns for, the one how rejected him because of his gender, most simply. Germans were so particular these days. Amelia is working him to slow dance with her, softly sighing her head hits his shoulder, but the Italian barely reacts and mumbles something to her. They continue to speak, their whispery little voices becoming unbeknownst to Ivan as he watches their body language.

–_How she betrays_–

She leans a little too comfortably against him. Thumb drawing circles on the hill of his palm, watching their entwined fingers with promiscuous interest as she wonders. Ivan could practically see her thinking –_"How would this hurt Ivan? How would this hurt me? Do I have to care? Why do I care?"– _and she's wanton in her motives towards Feliciano. She knows of Ludwig, she knows of his pain . . . she even knows of Ivan in the corner.

He is sure of that when she presses a soft kiss to the North Italian's jaw.

–.

The little look that she doesn't give him makes that glass break in his hand. Shards piercing his skin and drawing angry welts of crimson from his palm that rained down onto his shady table. Making tiny rivulets in the wood.

He barely notices though –no matter really, it will heal soon– and he almost smiles when Feliciano gives an apology and tries to shuffle away. Amelia holds him though, softly explaining and then allowing him to flee like a leaf she'd decided to let loose in the wind. She could have held him in that exact spot for hours, if she so pleased.

_Byt' ostorozhnym, Amelya. _He thinks wryly.

She would sooner drag his demons to play.

* * *

**Tada~**

**This is what happens when I get into an arguement with my friends, I read _Lolita _and suddenly I'm so inspired to finish an old flame. Do not ask me how a book like _Lolita _by Vladimir Nabokov (which has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the main character is French-British) I don't even know why the hell it was able to prompt me to write this story (I love this). One moment I was reading, then BAM I wanted to write. Two things have no connections what's-so-ever. The writer is Russian, last stretch of Imperial Russia born, and I checked the dates in my head and then of course I start thinking of 'The Gathering Storm' which is another book I'm reading, where two characters are, in fact, Nicolas and Alexandra the last imperial rulers of Russia and then I landed back to my Hetalia phase love for my little Vanya~ Again, no idea.**

**This is a new chapter story I guess. I like the words and I think their pretty.**

**The years is somewhere around a distorted 1920s faze of mine, if I find an invent that I like in the twenties; I'll mention it and give a year.**

* * *

**About the Character(s):**

**Amelia (America): **She's going through a phase, she fought in world war one, she wants peace and the quietness of the American Dream, but can't seem to shake the law breaking citizens that keep messing up her image. After fighting it so long, she just seems to fall in.

**Ivan (Russia): **He's communist now; Imperial Russia is long gone due to the death of the Imperial Family during the revolution. I guess you could say he's a bit of a twisted spin off from my other RusAme fic "The One That Chased the Boys" because of his infatuation with rosy Little America who seems to be clawing at the darkness just like him.

**Lovino (South Italy): **He brings the mafia. Plain and simple. He and Antonio (Spain) are taking a bit of a break so he needed someone to bother.

**Feliciano (North Italy): **He and Ludwig (Germany) had fallen into an on-again, off-again since world war one. Though they love each other premature flicks of Hitler's influence are on Ludwig's mind so he can't seem to be stable enough to realize that he loves him.

* * *

**Translation of Foreign Languages:**

_osly - _jackasses (Russian)

_Byt' ostorozhnym, Amelya - _Be careful, Amelia (Russian)

* * *

**~QueenVamp**


	2. the Belle of the Ball

**Chapter Two: the Belle of the Ball**

* * *

_Krasota_

In English it means beauty;  
beauty the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense  
pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations

_She is beauty, she is loveliness and comeliness. But she is also trouble. And asphyxiation. _

* * *

He had been drinking. There was no other way to put it.

The vodka was good, the night was young, and he had a source of entertainment.

Amelia continued her prowl of the night, things were just getting started. Ivan could feel the insufferable heat of the club brewing and building in the climax of the evening. Mafioso's stood in corners of the room this little speakeasy was held in and watched the patrons drink and dance to the ragtime and even a few Italian tunes. What the hell? It's not like it mattered. Most everyone were so drunk all they could seem to make out was the beat of the drums.

Step. Step. Spin. Step. Step. Jump.

Words of songs flew by, blending, bouncing, boiling.

Ivan could barely make out what the handsome Sicilian human was singing anymore, but a woman had joined him up on stage for a duet that she was, most obviously, not prepared for. It almost hurt his ears to listen, no wonder everyone drank so much in this country, they were all crazy! He'd have to be sure his immigrants were good singers, maybe they could fix the vocals of this country.

A flash of gold caught the corner of his peripheral vision.

_Speaking of said tone death country . . ._

He spotted her dancing with Lovino Vargas this time, his twin Feliciano had 'packed up shop' for the evening and had headed back to a stately mansion on the edge of one of Chicago's gated communities. You had to give Amelia props for managing so well with her double life. Such a spoiled child, she was use to praise, yet maybe it was better not to boost her ego any higher than it already was. She had a house in every state, liquor in every cellar, twin car garages and horse stables exclusively in Montana.

Albeit the house in Illinois was the only one where Amelia had two roommates to help her with her nightly sins.

Ivan watched them dance, somehow wildly realizing that the two had choreographed the dances together, defiantly there were some steps that were Argentinean (stolen by Spain and then stolen by Romano) and there were other steps that looked like a merger of different ethnic cultures (which Amelia had stolen).

Lovino spun her once, twice, hands interlocked they leaned away from each other and then close. Palm to palm, forehead to forehead, nose to nose–

Ivan twitched uneasily.

–and smiles erupt on their faces. The two giggled like little children caught being naughty. Fingers twining, Lovino's hand fell to her waist and they swayed to the music, moving and stepping to the beat, both knowing what to do and when.

He watches her laughing and dancing. Smiling at the man who'd corrupted her completely.

_Oh, contraire, _An evil smile tugged at Ivan's lips. _I will be the one to have my full before this Mr. Hyde dies away into the night._

He rose from his chair, adamant under the curious gazes of the people around him, leaves his drink and his blood on the table as he, with all the grace left from his imperial days, slides out of his booth and straightens to his startling height. He didn't fit in, that he knew. Deferentially, he's surrounded by some of America's underground elite, he is the only among them to keep his formal and prim composure. His hair was platinum white blonde, brushed back out of his eyes for tonight and fitted under a black fedora. His suit was dark too, perhaps it helped blend a little, but Amelia probably stumbled upon a stroke of luck by catching him tonight

With utter confidence, he strode forward onto the dance floor towards Lovino and Amelia.

Lovino saw him first, he could tell by how the little Italian's foot slipped and his eyes widened with impeding fear. Whence he went slack in her arms Amelia stopped dancing too. Asking her partner what was wrong and then looking over her shoulder, and then a double take.

The wide blue eyes of the young nation gave him a look that was near priceless. He'd bookmarked it his favorite next to that of Gilbert's when he marched into his place around 1914.

She'd seen him? Yes. Expected him to show himself? Apparently not.

Stilled in time like dancers on a music box, the two watched his approach as he effortlessly cut through the crowd towards them. He could see the shocked faces of the mafia as they watched a Soviet approach the most feared and respected branch of the Sicilian, and his lovely American date, only to ask:

"May I cut in, comrade?"

It was obvious Ivan was speaking to the terrified South Italy –who he was sure as bound to flee, leaving him to sweep Amelia around the floor for the remainder of the evening– but Amelia, always the revolutionist, gave him her _intense_ stare.

Feminism. Locked in.

"Beat it, ruskie. That's not how you ask a lady to dance." She hissed.

"Exactly." Ivan's eyes slid to Lovino slowly, his violet orbs holding the chill of eternal winters, iced over anger and frozen demands for what he wanted. "Lovino? There are many other precocious young women here. . ." Ivan let himself trail off, hoping the South Italian would get the hint to beat it.

"Uh, Amelia–" The baby-faced Italian stared, but his partner pulled from his embrace to face him, hands balled into fists at her sides, shoulders squared. Lovino quirked brows as if to say: _see? _and Ivan almost sighed. _Denied by Amelya. . ._

"Then _why_ don't _you _go dance with them, huh ruskie?" Amelia snapped viciously.

"Simple. They don't suit my fancy."

Amelia made a noise of disgust and crossed her arms over her chest in a leering manner. And her pretty face turned upward, southern accent seeping like venom into the fabric of her satin sheet voice. "Last time I checked you weren't too picky as long as you got your lay."

Ivan just smiled. Pure adrenaline coursed through his veins. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. The challenge she presented to him, the hate in her eyes. He loved it.

"Amica," Lovino patted her shoulder in a friendly gesture, a bare contrast to the earlier intimate dance. He looked almost terrified to touch her. "It'll be okay, I, uh, need to talk with Al."

Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but Lovino simply touched the brim of his hat and gave a last wary look to Ivan before turning to further into the crowd back to his men.

The two looked at each other for a moment and, finally, Ivan outstretched his hand to her. Amelia stared at him.

"Problem?" he asks almost innocently and the blonde's cheeks inflated in a childish manner.

". . .you don't know how to dance to this, ruskie. You're gonna make fools out of the both of us."

As if to contradict her completely, someone with ears finally dragged those drunken duet singers off the stage and made room for someone else to sing. Just a woman this time, one with a prims of fiery red hair and a glittering green dress and boa –now _there's _a girl who knew what she was doing. The pianist behind her nodded and began playing, softly.

Ivan's smile grew and he represented his hand.

Amelia glared at him and the little songstress began her soft love hymn, her voice was gentle. Seeming to caress the bodies in the crowd and the minds of the club's patrons; calming them, drawing back their sobriety with the innocence of her voice.

_"I'll be loving you, always.  
With a love that's true, always. . ."_

Woe, the contradictions, Amelia looked ready to throttle him and string him up by his scarf.

"Fine," she grabbed his hand, holding it a second in her fist and gave a menacing squeeze. "But _try _anything, ruskie, just _try _anything, and I'll knock you right on back to your communist nation where you belong."

Eh, good enough.

"I promise to be a gentleman." He smiled.

Ivan held her close like the other couples dancing.

Yes, he could dance to this. Very well.

"What do you want Ivan?" The cold bitterness in her voice is almost enough to make him recoil, but he's dealt with much, much worse. Though. . .her voice was the equivalence of the crack of a whip against his bare skin. Or, perhaps, his ego. The tired, twisted, bitterness of her voice, like the long months in General Winter's clutches, held no warmth for him.

_Where had that precious little angel gone? _He wondered animatedly. Had the new-Amelia truly eaten her? Or just buried her somewhere.

He had his money on buried. Americans could be such pack-rats.

"For now, to dance with you without ulterior motives being brought to play." The princess of paranoia opened her mouth to speak, but Ivan twirled her abruptly and, pulling her close to his chest, his hand lain politely near the small of her back.

"Watch it." She barked, flushing crimson.

"Izvinite." Ivan gave his signature little smile and the two continued to move across the dance floor with little conversation.

Just like he'd suspected, Amelia hadn't forgotten a step of the dancing England had taught her. The two seemed to glide across the stone floors under the dim dark lights, they hadn't danced like this sense their first meeting in London many years before, across marble floors of Arthur's home and under a twinkling diamond chandelier with many tiny candles flickering rebelliously and caused tiny rainbows to hail down upon them. They moved well together, they were meant to dance together. Here, forever.

The song ended and most couples broke for a new partner. They didn't.

Another song began. Slow again.

Yes, the night was almost over.

"Why are you here?" Amelia asked softly.

"Since the last war: we haven't spoken. You won't answer my letters. You won't see me. . ."

"We've never really been that close, Ivan." The subtle calmness of her voice caught him off-guard. "A few hundred years ago we were close, but we were never good friends."

"That doesn't mean I don't care for you." Ivan shot a straying glance over to Lovino at the bar, chatting it up with two suited men with distinct Italian features. The alcohol burned in his veins, making him dizzy. "And . . . I am beginning to question your choices in company."

Amelia's face blotched the same shade of crimson as country's flag. "What's your beef about, Lovino?"

"Nothing, I was merely under the impression that South Italy wasn't attracted to women." She became redder still, vivid crimson across her face and red blood rushing to the surface of her delicate golden skin.

She was _blushing. _He could almost 'aw' in delight.

"I don't believe this, I'm _leaving._" Amelia moved to step back, but Ivan held on.

No, he'd just gotten her. He was _not _letting her go. "Don't go yet, _dushka._"

He pulled her to him, spinning her a little toward him to make it look like they intended to do that move. Amelia complied, but angrily elbowed him in the gut before falling back into step. Her rogue lips held no half-sane, sane, or soft smile for him, but it was the fire in her eyes that Ivan liked. There was old-Amelia.

Really, he couldn't decide which Amelia he liked best. The new, jumpy and feisty, elegant flapper. Or the war-raging and calculating, warrior.

He put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her closer to him. This only served to further anger her and put her hands up against his chest. "Watch it, you communist pig. I'm not in the mood."

"I doubt that, you're in the mood for a challenge Amelya, I have been watching you all night, you have left your dance partners astray . . . You haven't left me yet." He chirped.

"Because you won't _let me_." Amelia shoved against his chest against and this time succeeded in freeing herself. "Ivan, you're drunk. Go home."

"Amelya–" He took a step towards her.

"Shut _up._" Amelia turned her cold gaze onto him. "You've been watching me all night? Fine. Now watch me walk _away._"

And he did. Her heels clicked with every step and her body swayed and people made way for her, jumping back like she was on fire. The bystanders all then turned to see what she was walking away fromand found Ivan, idly considering to give chase or not. He didn't though, he continued to watch, his feet nailed to the floor watching the ferocious little flapper strut over to Lovino, snag her coat and purse from a thick necked mafioso burdened with the task of watching them and half-walked, half-ran out the door, stumbling slightly in her heels and caring not for the grace of her steps.

"Amica! Bambina Bearcat! It's your party!" The South Italian shouted after her, but Amelia kept going, the million tiny beads of her dress hitting each other as she moved at a speed that made them all twist and clink together. All mystic grace from them lost with her impending threat of ripping someone's head off.

"Well, it's yours now. Have fun~!" She gave a salute worthy of a U.S. marine over her shoulder and pulled on her fox fur coat, stumbling slightly as she made her way up the stairs and into the dark night.

* * *

**Sorry this took so long to get out. Bit of writer's block, needed to kick myself with some 20s and write this. ****I actually looked up slang for the 1920s and if you have any questions just ask, and I'll add them in with the translations.**

**When Lovino mentions Al, I'm referring to Al Capone: famous mafia boss in Chicago, we learn about him because he's a major part in our mafia, bootlegged history XD I take pride in that, yes.**

**God Bless Amelia! She's so angry at little Vanya, we'll find out why in some later chapters. I know most people put the country's emotions towards each other by their country's history but since this is fanfiction I'm going to veer slightly off that track to make this at least a decent RusAme story. **

**Okay, why do I always update this story when I'm having friend drama? I don't know. Does it make me a spoiled brat that i get to say my first car is a Mercedes-Benz? I think it does. Someone's gonna rip off the pretty hood ordiment.**

**1914= Damn a lot happened that year. Russia marched to Prussia (hence joke). And . . . in _War Horse _Captain Nicholls (Tom Hiddleston) died in battle! T~T WAH! I didn't want him to die! . . . damnit I need a life!**

* * *

**Translation of Foreign Languages:**

Amica = female friend (Italian)

Bambina =little girl (Italian)

Dushka = darling, precious (Russian)

Izinvite = sorry (Russian)

* * *

**~QueenVamp**


End file.
